


Know Thine Enemy

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crusades-AU. John is a Christian soldier, Sherlock is a Muslim scientist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Thine Enemy

John joins the Crusade. Not because he actually believes in its cause, but because he's a soldier, has always been a soldier, and he needs to earn his bread. So he goes along with the fanatics and the ones who have nothing to lose and the ones who are just like him, trying to make a living. And it's not so bad as long as he doesn't think about it too much. Maybe there's something to what the preachers say and maybe there isn't. It's not his place to judge. It's his place to follow orders and that's what he does.

Until.

Until he enters a small house on the outskirts of a small town they've just taken. It's the strangest interior he's ever seen. Glass everywhere - bottles, tubes and bowls. Metal mirrors and steaming pots and liquids in all colours are dispersed around the room. It smells of chemicals and of blood and of things he's never smelled before. There are scrolls and books everywhere, scattered among the chaos. John has seen books before and when he was younger he'd tried to learn how to read them, but he never got very far. He can sign his name and that's about it.

He stands on the threshold, staring at this strange place, when a man enters through a doorway at the back. The man is tall, slim with dark curly hair that stands up every which way. He's dressed in dirty blue robes and he's holding a book, reading as he walks, muttering to himself.

He doesn't notice John at first. It's John's sharp breath of surprise that makes him look up. He stops and stares at John through narrowed eyes.

Neither of them says anything for a long time. They just stare at each other. Eventually the other man breaks eye contact and steps over to one of the tables. He puts the book down and starts fiddling with some instruments. It looks, to John, like he's going back to work. And that's... just wrong.

"What are you doing?" John asks, stepping further into the room.

"I'm trying to determine whether it is possible to distinguish the blood of an animal from the blood of man." He raises his head, then, and looks at John. His eyes are of a cold blue that John has only seen in the northern regions before. "If you are going to kill me, I suggest you do that now. If not, leave me to my work."

"I'm..." John starts, then falters. He's at a loss. This isn't what he expected. It isn't what he's used to. Normally people scream and beg and cry. Some fight, some run, some just give in. John hates this part - he knows that he's killing innocent people, knows that it's nothing like killing soldiers in the field. Sometimes he wishes someone would just take a sword and run him through. He knows he's going to go to Hell one day, despite what the preachers say. Heaven is not meant for people like him.

The stranger has gone back to ignoring him. John tightens his hand on his sword, but doesn't lift it. Instead, he turns around and walks out of the house.

He returns later at night, when the others are sleeping. The stranger has been on his mind the whole day and John can't shake the feeling that he must see him again. That there's something waiting for him in that small house. Something better than what he has at the moment.

He knows it's crazy. He knows he should have killed that man - _"Heathens! Devil-worshippers! Scourge of Christendom!"_ rings in his ears - but he knows that he's not going to.

He leaves his sword behind.

As he enters the house, he hears a clattering sound. The man is still working on something - this time on a low table at the other side of the room. There's a curse that John doesn't understand, but has heard a number of times before.

"As-salāmu 'alaikum," John says. He's been around the Muslim long enough to know what it means - _Know thine enemy_ , his father taught him - and he hopes it sends the right message.

"Wa 'alaikumu s-salām," comes the echo. The the man looks up, sees John and raises an eyebrow. "You do know that there can never be peace between us, Christ."

John shrugs, "That's what the preachers say."

The strangers lips curl up at the corners. "Are you back to finish your work?"

"Did you find out if human blood is different to animal blood?" John asks, ignoring the question.

The stranger smiles for real this time and shakes his head. John wonders if that means he hasn't or if the blood isn't different. Maybe he'll ask about it later. Right now, the most important thing to John is to get to know this man. To find out why, just by looking at him, his old life suddenly becomes impossible to continue.

"I'm John."

"Sherlock. Sit down there and be quiet. I need to finish this."

John smiles and does as he’s told. Years later, he’ll remember this moment as the one that changed his life.

\-------

\-------

Sherlock is not really a believer. He trusts in knowledge, in the science of the old philosophers and the inventions of his own mind. He lost his belief in Allah long ago. He was six years old, hidden under a pile of cloth, when he watched the Christians murder his family. Mother, father, two brothers and a baby sister - all gone within minutes.

At first he hated them, the Crusaders with their swords and their fire and their evil words. He was determined to find a way to defeat them, kill them all in revenge for taking away the only people he ever loved. His father had taught him to read - _Ignorance begets fear_ \- and once he’d read all that he could gather, Sherlock taught himself to read the other languages too. Greek, Babylonian, Persian, even the Egyptian pictograms - it didn’t matter. Once he knew the basics, they became easy to work out.

He learned about the stars in the sky, about mathematics and philosophy. He learned about the Greek gods and their never-ending vendettas. They sounded so human. He read the Qur’an and the Tanakh and the writings of the Christians. He paid a lot of money for the writings of the philosopher Confucius.

The more he read, the more he understood. The more he understood, the less he hated. Over time, his aim shifted. He now realized that it was impossible to destroy Christianity. You couldn’t stop people believing. All you could do was educate them, show them where they were wrong.

He tried, with his own people first, but they only shouted at him, threw stones at him and threatened to kill him. So he went to other places. He tried to make the Christians understand that their faith wasn’t really any different from his or that of the Jews. He tried to teach the Jews that Islam and Christianity were but brothers to their own religion. But they were all just as bad at listening as the people in his home town. Again and again he had to leave or face death.

In the end he gave up. He went home and buried himself in his research. Over time, he built a reputation as someone who could find lost things and was able to help people who were in trouble. They spoke of him in hushed tones, behind closed doors. They came to him when there was no other solution left, but avoided him when they didn’t need him. He helped them with their little problems and yet, no-one would listen to what he really wanted to say.

Until.

Until John steps into his life. John listens.

He listens as Sherlock shows him how the blood of an animal can be distinguished from the blood of a human. He listens and nods when Sherlock tells him that the reason one can only look so far, even on a flat plane, is because the earth is curved - probably round, like an apple. He listens and argues and finally agrees when Sherlock explains how all faiths are really just versions of one and the same idea.

John listens and he tries to understand and even if he doesn’t, he trusts Sherlock to be right anyway. And Sherlock gets used to not being alone, gets used to being listened to. He gets used to the feel of John’s skin under his hands, John’s soft moans and quiet snores and the determined look in his eyes when someone comes knocking on Sherlock’s door.

The army is long gone, has found new victims and spread more death, but John is still there.

Sherlock thinks that maybe it’s going to be enough. Him and John and their life together.

And if the people - the ones that survived because they were smart enough to listen to him and hid or fled - if they don’t agree with what they think is happening within the four walls of Sherlock’s home, well, they know they need him more than another pointless death.


End file.
